Empty
by TMBlue
Summary: COMPLETE! Moments after leaving their tent, Ron tries to take it back.


"- come back!"

Her desperate cry meshed with the crack of his disapparition. And for several seconds, he was spinning, dizzy, away from them. He staggered, as he landed moments later... into the middle of icy blackness, alone.

He sucked in a breath as silence engulfed him. Crisp snow beneath his feet crunched delicately under his weight. But all around him, the eerily unmoving trees- the inky, cloudless sky- they threatened to cave in on him as the magnitude of what he had done slowly crept up his spine.

His eyes, wide and unblinking, looked upon the darkness all around with a new kind of hollow fear. He was completely alone. He was lost in the depths of the forest. And he had left them.

Suddenly unable to breathe, he doubled over, frantically attempting to cough through frozen lungs. Dropping to his knees, he finally managed it, retching with a cry as he squeezed his eyes shut, flattening a palm against the snow. As he shook, he opened his eyes again to a spreading warmth at his fingertips, viewing, detached, the blood that coloured the snow, where he had splinched off the nails of two fingers.

The rage he'd left with was seizing inside his chest, an emotional overflow as distance from the locket- his fears, his anger- spread wider. He was shaking erratically as he lifted himself back to his knees, inspecting his splinched hand, teeth chattering from the earth-shattering chill.

"Goddamn it," he cried, hunching forward.

Alright. He could do it. He'd made a mistake. A fucking huge mistake. And all he had to do was turn back, make it right. Could she forgive him? Could Harry?

He needed a moment to calm down. He was sure that the longer he sat here, knees of his jeans now soaked through from the snow, the better it would be for him. His lungs ached, as if he'd woken from a bout of pneumonia. That damned locket. If he could have listened to her, taken it off earlier and let her stop him from going…

It didn't matter now. He'd done what he'd done. Unconsciously, he shook his head slowly, back and forth, clearing the cobwebs left by the haze of control that thing had had over him. He'd faced all of these things before, the things it had told him, shown him. But it had poisoned his already ill mind.

He was bone-frozen and sick to his stomach. And ironically, he now felt neither the hunger or the hurt that had sent him away. Only aching regret stung now, in that moment, for what he'd said and done.

Behind him, a sudden crack echoed through the emptiness, and he twisted violently around, scrambling to his feet.

"Fuckin' hell."

He couldn't see farther than a few feet in front of him, eyes still adjusting to the stark darkness, light only reflecting off the branches of the snow-covered trees closest to him.

"Over 'ere!" came a shout, much too close.

"Shit," he muttered, under his breath, cold puffs of air emitting from his nose and mouth as he clutched his wand, ready to apparate.

"Got 'yeh." A dark voice resounded in his ear, directly behind him, and he was caught, hands around his shoulders and wrists as he closed his eyes and swore again. His wand was ripped from his hand as he struggled to stop it.

There were too many of them. And no one was coming to help. He'd made sure of that…

"Hey, ye've got one!" shouted another man, curving round to stand in front of Ron, looking pleased.

"Muggleborn, eh?" another grizzly looking man asked, almost grinning as he inspected Ron, head to toe.

"Piss off," Ron shivered, straining against the two men who were holding him steady.

"Not likely. We'll collect our reward first, yeh little shit."

Snatchers, Ron knew. Collecting the bounty on Muggleborns trying to escape or hide.

The men behind him began to drag him backward, heels digging into the icy dirt beneath the snow. Frustration dominated, then, over his fear. He needed to get back to their camp, soon. It hurt too much to imagine how they must be feeling, what they must be saying to each other in his absence. But he could focus, then, on the simple act of physically returning.

Or at least he could have, had he not fallen into the bloody misfortune of five Snatchers, out for a nighttime stroll...

The Snatcher who was gripping him round the shoulders pushed him roughly forward, fingers of a third Snatcher digging into Ron's biceps as he shuddered, hot thick breath against his face as the Snatcher pushed him, hard, against a tree trunk, rough bark cutting his back through his clothing.

"Who the hell are you?" the man asked, yellowed teeth grinning back at Ron as he grimaced.

"SSttan," Ron shivered… "Shunpike."

"Eh?" one of the other Snatchers questioned, out of Ron's sight.

"He says 'is name's Stan Shunpike, 'arold. Check the bleeding list!" roared the man still holding Ron tightly. He could do nothing but slump slightly against the tree behind him, heart beating rapidly still from his rage, his departure… his capture.

But before he could say another word or make another move, a wrinkled, tanned, dark-bearded man to his right punched him, hard, in the stomach.

He grunted and doubled forward, forehead ducking into the chest of the man who still stood before him. The man swore and slammed Ron's back straight against the tree again, growling at him.

"Don't bloody move," the man snarled, tightening his grip painfully on Ron's biceps.

And before he could work out a strategy for escape, he was being tied up, forced to his knees, facing the tree, back toward his capturers. His cheek scraped roughly against the bark, and he closed his eyes, waiting.

Behind him, the sounds of five men arguing dumbly reached his ringing ears. They sounded quite bewildered and confused. Well, at least he'd managed to stall for time. He wasn't sure what had made him choose Stan's name as his cover. First thing that had popped into his mind. But it seemed to be at least delaying their course of action as they fought over the truthfulness of his claim. It seemed that at least two of them were on the side of disbelieving him. But they didn't seem to have a basis for their argument.

Ron slackened his body in his restraints and pondered how the hell he was going to escape. He had very few limited options. Without his wand, it was up to the distraction of the men behind him to cover for anything he could attempt. His eyes darted round the sides of his tree, and he spotted it. A jagged rock, a few feet away. If he could just slide his body down the trunk enough, he could strain a hand forward to grab the rock and-

"Oi, doesn' make a difference if we haven' got the full list. The bastard says he's Shunpike, and if he's tellin' the truth, we've got to let 'im off."

"He's lying! I tell yeh, I saw Stan meself, and he's not bleeding ginger!"

"Gaffin, couldn' remember a witch's hair colour if he'd jus' shagged 'er…"

"Fuck you, 'arold."

Ron had done it. He was silently sawing his way through the ropes at his left wrist. At the pace he was going, he'd need another quarter of an hour at least of their bickering to escape. And even then, he'd have to wrestle a wand away from at least one of them to apparate away…

Fuck, no. He'd have to retrieve his own wand if he had any hope of returning behind the wards to Harry and Hermione's camp...

"Wanker," he muttered to himself, eyes burning as he thought of them again, back at their bunks, warm and protected and bloody glad to be shot of him.

No. No, she wouldn't be. She wasn't. He'd heard her crying out to him. And he'd left anyway.

A foot pressed painfully to his back and he jolted with shock, nearly dropping his rock as his eyes widened. He'd not even heard this one approaching. The foot pressed harder, deflating his lungs as he tightened his stomach muscles against the tree to keep from flattening completely and suffocating. With a final shove, the foot dropped away and Ron gasped in air, filling his starving lungs just in time.

"Jesus…"

The man laughed, turning back to his fellows again.

Pausing, frozen, just to recall how to breathe normally again, he pressed his forehead to the rough bark and let it dig jagged grooves into his skin. How the hell was he going to get out of this, really? He'd nearly freed one wrist, unknown to the men behind him. But what then?

What the fuck then?

Desperation rose, and he could feel his stomach churn with the need to vomit again. No. He would not give up. He would not be captured and taken away and lose his chance to find them again.

He had to make it back. That was all.

Relashio. Relashio. Relashio.

And all at once, his skin tingling with frantic energy, his bindings ripped away, flying off of him with such force that the men behind him turned, shocked just long enough for Ron to jump to his feet and charge them, punching the first one he came to squarely across the bridge of the nose. Shouting from pain, the man dropped his wand. Ron reached for it and had it at eye level before any of the others could get a curse out.

"Bloody-" one of the Snatchers began, charging forward toward Ron. "Impedi-

"Expelliarmus!"

The second Snatcher's wand, as well as Ron's own wand, flew into his waiting left hand. And as soon as he realised he had the only thing he needed to make it back through the wards to Harry and Hermione, he twisted, squinting as he caught sight of the dawning sun, apparating away from four furious faces and one profusely bleeding nose.

He overbalanced as a more familiar part of forest swam into view, and he collapsed to his knees, panting.

"Shit…" he breathed, spinning back to the reality that he'd actually done it. He'd come back.

Swallowing and pulling himself to his feet, he shuddered against a gust of frigid wind and began his trek back to their camp, stuffing the two stolen wands into the waistband of his jeans. He'd apparated a mile or so away, not wanting to risk bringing a Snatcher along with him directly to their tent. The walk was cold and blinding, moving directly into the rising sun, pink-orange sky of a deep winter morning. But he could not have felt more relieved. He was ready for the hexes she might send his way. He was ready for the row and the apologies he'd give them. It didn't matter anymore. None of it mattered.

The only thing now was getting back to them. Seeing them again and feeling safe. It didn't even matter if they needed him. Though he shook his head, reminding himself not to fall down that path again. Not to let himself think of anything else but what he had to do. That damned locket.

He shivered, and not from the cold this time.

A quarter of an hour later, he approached the edge of the wards and waved his wand in front of his face, ready to reveal their camp.

There was nothing there. The air around him did not waver with the telltale signs of their protection charms, the ones he'd be able to penetrate had they been there at all. It wasn't possible that they had taken him out of the charm, left him unable to return. Was it? He let out a small groan as fear edged up.

"No," he whispered softly.

He tried again, more frantically this time… to no effect.

"Fucking brilliant..." he muttered, suddenly unable to swallow. He took a step forward. And another. And, knowing that he would not be repelled by any signs of magic this time, he began to shake, unconsciously, standing at the exact spot where their tent had been the night before.

"Ruddy sodding bastards!" he shouted, eyes burning once again, as he thought of what his encounter with the Snatchers had cost him. He was standing, on the ridge, in the middle of an empty forest. Hours prior, he'd been acting like a daft child, jealous and hungry and unsatisfied. And now, if he could only see them again, he would take a lifetime supply of over-boiled mushrooms and no hope of ever leaving their second-hand canvas walls, ever again.

He was trembling violently now, but it didn't matter. The cold couldn't quite reach him as his reality hit him.

He had no way to find them. They had made sure of that, in their meticulous means for protection. And now he was lost, alone, frozen.

But yet, even as he blinked bloodshot eyes, the stark, wintry world swimming around him, he could not let himself believe that he would never see them again. He gripped his wand more tightly with newly scabbed fingers.

"I'll find you," he muttered, closing his eyes and letting his desperate tears fall fresh to the snow.


End file.
